JMIA
by Angeltree16
Summary: A month has passed since the events of His Last Vow and Sherlock is working furiously to bring Moriarty down. His work is interrupted when he receives a cryptic message from John Watson which may lead to the discovery of Moriarty's true goal. Spoilers for season three. All the angst. Please read and review.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This is my first** **story. Sadly, I do not own Sherlock. Please read and review.**

Chapter one:

Sherlock sat with his head bowed over his steepled fingers. A month had passed since Moriarty's cryptic message. A dozen crimes with his signature 'Did you miss me' scratched into a wall or written in blood had swarmed through England like a plague. His most recent act had been the murder of Jason H. Williams, an unremarkable dentist whom Moriarty had no reason to target.

Lestrade paced the floor of 221B, running his fingers through his trimmed grey hair, muttering to himself.

"It doesn't make sense. The man was clean. He was a dentist not a drug dealer for God's sake! What the hell is that psychopath doing? What's the pattern?"

Behind him, the scrawny figure in the dark chair let out a frustrated growl. Anderson and Donovan stared daggers at him, their disapproval of the man's long silence evident. Finally, when she couldn't take it anymore Donovan scowled and ground out:

"Well Freak, have you got anything or not?"

Sherlock gazed at her with a bored expression, his ice-blue eyes boring into her's.

"Still having an affair with Anderson I see. Pity. I suppose even you could do better than _that_ Sally."

He gestured at a gobsmacked Anderson with his chin, as though referencing a particularly hideous form of vermin. Sally grit her teeth, her rat-like partner in adulterous relations gaping like a bass choking on air. Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose muttering "Sherlock" exasperatedly. Sherlock rolled his eyes like the petulant child he was in the eyes of New Scotland Yard.

"In answer to your ridiculously ineloquent question, yes and no," Sherlock stated blandly in his resonating baritone. "No, I don't know don't know where Moriarty's going with this. As you so _keenly_ observed, the man is psychotic. That makes him unpredictable, especially since his crimes share no visible connection other than his little _love notes_."

Sally grinned like a cat who had caught the canary. The day had finally come that the great Sherlock Holmes, pompous ass of Baker Street, was floundering without a clue.

"However," he grumbled at seeing her so pleased, "I do know that James Moriarty would never be so random. There is a method to this madness, this great game, set up to make me dance."

Sherlock steepled his fingers once again, delving back into his mind palace.

"It takes a madman to know one," Sally stated, not bothering to lower her voice. Anderson grunted his approval, long since disenchanted with Holmes since his return. Without the conspiracy theories behind his survival or the guilt he felt for the man's death, Sherlock was the same callous man Phillip had always loathed. All was right in the world once more. Except it wasn't.

One factor was conspicuously missing. The cluttered room lacked John Watson, lounging in his faded red armchair, halfheartedly telling Sherlock to be polite. Sherlock vaguely recalled in the catacombs of his mind that John really should have been there by now. Mary would be out of town for a few weeks visiting friends, an elderly couple who had become the parents she had never had, and showing off baby Sherly. During her absence, John had made it a habit of coming to Baker Street to help with the Moriarty conundrum. The detective was secretly pleased that the good doctor had been present so often of late. Mary had gone specifically without John, knowing that her adrenaline junkie husband would be bored out of his wits, and would prefer spending time with London's resident sociopath.

Said self-proclaimed, 'heartless' sociopath was wondering after his friend, not with concern but with irritation. He didn't get 'concerned'.

" _John really is quite late though_ ," he thought, consulting his watch. Three hours had passed since the end of his shift at the clinic. The latest he had been before was two hours, as he had stopped to buy provisions for the detective and once again got into an altercation with a chip-and-pin machine. Sherlock smirked at the memory.

" _Given his compulsive politeness (dull) he should have at least texted by now._ " At that moment a text alert sounded from Sherlock's Belstaff pocket hanging by the door. Without opening his eyes he muttered, "Phone," directing the statement at Lestrade. Greg sighed as he rifled through the pockets of the great black coat in search of the mobile.

"It's from John."

"And?" Sherlock prompted.

Greg's brow furrowed in confusion.

"It doesn't make any sense. It just says JMIA, all capitals."

The mobile sounded again.

"He says…help."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, worry dancing in them.

"Well that's a bit not good."


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: I still own nothing. I'd like to know what you think, so pretty please read and review. :)**

Chapter two

"JMIA?" Anderson puzzled, leaning heavily on John's armchair and loudly drumming his fingers upon it. "John missing in action?"

Phillip grinned proudly at his discovery just as Sherlock rolled his head lazily at him and huffed in dismissal. He suddenly stood and stalked towards the little inspector, glowering down at him.

"Even you can't be that much of an idiot Phillip."

The consulting detective began to frantically pace, just as Lestrade had moments before, running his fingers through his dark curls. He began muttering, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration as the officers looked on. He went on like this for several minutes, stepping on the paper laden coffee table before dropping back down and starting towards the mantle once more. The gangly figure abruptly halted before the fireplace before whirling on Lestrade, snatching his phone, and scanning it with hungry eyes. The inspector could swear that one of these days Sherlock would give him whiplash.

At last Holmes tilted his head up, his eyes closed and growled.

"Mycroft was right. I am living…in a world…of goldfish."

His head snapped back to Lestrade, his eyes ablaze, before practically shouting, "This is not JMIA! This is JM IA." The ferocity in the deep voice caused Lestrade to unconsciously take a small step back. Cautiously, he asked, in no more than a whisper, "What?"

Sherlock sighed deeply, the action dripping with exasperation.

"Can't you see? It's two separate acronyms. JM…IA, not JMIA. Moreover, 'missing in action' can be easily interpreted in lowercase letters. If John truly was in danger, he wouldn't bother with proper grammar. He's not Mycroft. No, these are proper nouns. Two separate names for locations…or people."

Sherlock trailed off with dawning horror evident in his eyes. He licked his lips nervously before he continued.

"Names in acronym. Initials. It all connects. I've been an idiot. Jason H. Williams. JHW. John Hamish Watson. He was taunting me, warning me."

His words stuttered out in a rush, like water cascading over a waterfall, as though nothing in the world could stop them.

"Williams was a dentist, a doctor in his own field. Why didn't I see it before?"

"Sherlock what are you on about?" Lestrade shouted.

Sherlock took a deep, calming breath.

"JM is Jim Moriarty. He has John, and John warned me just like _he_ wanted; because there's nothing I can do to stop him. Maybe John warned me before Moriarty predicted. Maybe he's still alive. There are too many variables!"

Sherlock clutched his head and looked to be on the verge of hysterics. He moved swiftly towards the door and grabbed his coat, prepared to scour London for the doctor. Greg recognized that time was of the essence, but he had to know.

"What does IA mean?"

Sherlock leaned heavily on the wall and took a stuttering breath.

"Moriarty's idea of irony."

 **AN: Ha, waterfall. Did anyone get the waterfall thing? Original Reichenbach? No? Don't judge my nerdiness!**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Thanks to mvkgreen for your lovely review! Reviews make me happy and might make me be less mean with cliffhangers. Still own nothing. Still wish I did.**

Chapter three

A haughty brunette strutted down a cracked sidewalk towards a small apartment complex just south of central London; her styled bun as immovable as the steely expression on her painted face. She pressed a mobile against her ear, listening intently before speaking.

"He's here."

She paused for a few long moments, a shadow passing over her eyes. When she spoke again, she possessed a tone as chilled as the November air. Her breath fogged as she snarled.

"Done."

She jammed the end call button and gazed up at the white-washed building. The gun strapped to her thigh, which ordinarily gave her such comfort, held a sudden weight hidden as it was beneath a short, silken dress with a high slit and a furred coat. Irene Adler was hardly one for subtlety.

"It's nothing personal," she whispered toward the building. "This world is far more primitive than anyone would like to believe. When the hunter becomes the hunted she does what she must, as a matter of survival. You would do the same in my place."

The building did not reply.

She took a breath before slipping through a front door, festering with wood-rot, and gliding up a set of creaking steps. She stopped before a dark green door, peeling gold filigree barely registering in her mind as reading 'sixteen'. She sank to the poorly carpeted door and picked the lock with the deft precision of a practiced hand. From the lock came a barely audible click and she breezed into the Watson's home.

Months of planning, deliberation, and blackmail had led to this. It was elegant in its simplicity. Get in, get out, one mark, one casualty. He would kill them all in time. The landlady, the inspector, the Hooper girl. He'd save the doctor's wife and child for last. Sherlock would watch the life leave their eyes before he too died by Moriarty's hand. He'd do it slowly, breaking the detective's world piece by piece. These were his methods. This was his design.

The doctor would do for now.

Irene moved through the flat with the grace and silence of wind in winter, in search of her prey. A sharp sound sent a jolt of fear down her spine and she quickly drew a pearl-handled revolver. The rapid beating of her heart calmed as she realized she had merely overheard the good doctor whistling a strange melody, quite out of tune. Irene felt her lips quirk upwards of their own accord as he hit a particularly shrill note. She shook herself mentally, her firm mask slipping back into place, her posture rigid. She moved towards the kitchen.

She peered around the corner, seeing John Watson for the first time. He stood at the sink in a garish striped jumper and slacks, spooning out a copious amount of tea leaves from a little blue box as the kettle whistled cheerily. She stared for a moment, before closing her eyes to the scene, a hollow pain in her chest.

Her brows furrowed. _"What was this? Remorse?"_

She physically shook her head this time to rid herself of the thought and reminded herself of a hard-learned lesson.

Caring is not an advantage.

She cocked the revolver and aimed it around the plaster wall. She closed her eyes, unwilling to see the outcome of her actions. Her aim, however, did not waver.

Had her eyes been open, she would have seen the small man's back tense and his gaze harden as he stared at an empty doorframe. She might have seen his eyes narrow at the sight of a barrel of a gun and the edge of a furred sleeve. She might have noticed the look of resigned calm upon his features as he typed a message swiftly, not frantically, into his phone.

She saw none of this.

The gun went off with a crack like a peal of thunder.

She heard a scuffle and the heavy thump of a body hitting the floor.

 **AN: First of all, bonus points to anyone who got my other fandom references. Secondly, yes I lied about the cliffhanger thing. Maybe I'll be nicer next time if you review. *evil laughter***


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: I own nothing. Please R & R. **

Chapter four

Tears started in her eyes as Irene peered around the corner into the kitchen. She, a creature of darkness, who's own poisonous schemes of blackmail and deceit had brought nations to their very knees, had never killed by her own hand. It was a curious feeling. Like a pit had suddenly appeared where a piece of her broken soul had been. She wondered if this was what had made Moriarty as he now stood; so broken and twisted by murder that he became an empty shell with empty eyes. So unlike the man that lay now dead.

John Watson was a father. A soldier. A friend. He protected Sherlock when no-one else would, and for that Irene was grateful, and forever indebted to the doctor for looking after the man she…loved? Perhaps. Certainly cared for in her own way. She and Sherlock were much alike in that way. Not very good with feelings. But no, Sherlock had gotten better at that. Less cold. Less withdrawn. That too was John Watson's doing. Yes, John Watson was a great man.…because he made Sherlock Holmes a good one.

And Irene would never repay that debt. Could not. Not now.

Her cold facade melting away, she wept for the man she had killed as she rounded the corner, sorrow filling the pit. She was not Moriarty. Tears filled her heart, where his would be consumed by the flame of insanity; and while that madness may move her like a puppet in a tangled web of strings, she could have her tears.

Her glassy eyes spied the unmoving body on the floor. She blinked in confusion, clearing her vision. A large bag of flour had fallen from the counter, a bullet lodged in the spot John Watson's head should have been, its contents spilling onto the floor.

She stood, frozen, in abject bewilderment at the scene before her, comprehending nothing but the large paper bag; not even the shadow moving behind her.

A sturdy, compact frame slammed into her, knocking her to the floor and her gun out of reach. Her head cracked against the tile and her vision blurred. She lashed out with a stiletto-clad foot, and heard a satisfying 'oof!' Years as a dominatrix had taught her how to drop a man instinctively. She fumbled for her gun and stumbled to her feet, aiming it once more.

Doctor Watson, however, possessed reflexes of his own, and for the second time that day they saved his life. He swept her ankles out from under her and she fell. Sitting up as swiftly as she could, she noted that the doctor appeared as dazed as she. After a moment, however, each gazed at the other with clear eyes, pointing a gun at the other's racing heart.

Irene let out a breathy laugh as she took heavy lungfuls of air.

"You had…a gun….in your kitchen?"

John grinned back, gasping.

"Sherlock..makes you more—paranoid…than war. He's a bloody..magnet…for murderers. I'm surprised…when I don't wake up..to a gun..or a knife…and some sort of threat.

But you. You, I never suspected. You just don't seem the…coldblooded killer..type. Not to mention the fact..that you were beheaded in Pakistan several years ago. Considering the past few months though, I really shouldn't be that surprised. It seems that no one can stay dead anymore."

"Did you really expect anything less of me Doctor Watson?"

Irene felt her lips curl back in a sneer. It held no malice, but it did offer a challenge. A battle of wits for which the doctor was no match.

John knew this. He was familiar with being outmatched in terms of intellect. The key was to stall without seeming to stall, and so he met her gaze.

"Not really. After Sherlock, I rather suspect Jack the Ripper's still alive. I really wouldn't be surprised at this point. You all show up out of bloody nowhere and I either accept it or I go mad. You know, Sherlock, the bloody git, never told me how he survived. He has to be all mysterious with his big coat and fluffing up his hair. I don't suppose you'll tell me how the hell you're alive, when Mycroft Holmes, queen of the not-so-secret-service, thinks you're dead?"

"Oh that's simple. Sherlock's got a soft spot for me."

They were both stalling now.

John rolled his eyes.

"Of one time he lets his heart rule his head…" John trailed of with a shake of his head.

Irene drew her brows together.

"The one time? Now I don't think that's quite true. I heard about a man called Magnussen. A bit more subtle than dear Jim in his chaos, but a great intellect in his own right. You know the fellow, seems ordinary enough but has a look in his eyes that says he'll eat your face if you aren't careful. Now if memory serves, he threatened you so Sherlock blew his brains out. That's hardly an action of the rational mind. No, Doctor, that kind of loyalty and love comes from a great heart as well as a great mind…which is why you must go."

"Go?"

"You're his pressure point. His Achilles heel as it were. This is a dangerous game we play, John Watson, a game played out by a rare few in the shadows of the world. In the darkness, you are a light for all to see, to illuminate brilliance or expose weakness; and so the underworld would seek to extinguish you lest you reveal us all."

"…I'm sorry what?"

Irene sighed.

"Sherlock works better with you around. Lesser criminals wish you gone so he won't catch them…so easily. Moriarty wants you dead because a) you're a weak spot in Sherlock, and he abhors those and b) if Sherlock finds you dead he'll redouble his efforts to find him. Jim's been getting bored waiting for Sherlock to catch up."

"So why are you here?"

Irene's head snapped up at the question.

"What?"

"If Moriarty wants me dead, why not just send one of the usual people? Moran? Greyson? Phillips? They're all marksmen. So why you?"

Irene let out a little laugh.

"Given all the hiding he's been doing of late, I fear Jim's gotten a tad dramatic. All those soap operas he watched in that Waldorf Astoria in America; New York I think it was. Any day now I'm sure he'll be convinced he's someone's evil twin. Oh how the mighty have fallen. He devised this little scheme. He thinks it's some sort of 'beautiful poetic justice'."

"What the hell does that mean?!"

"He heard about the incident in Charles Magnussen's office, when your wife shot Mr. Holmes. Don't ask me how he knows," she said, cutting John off, "I don't know. He has his resources. He thought that little twist was 'simply delicious' but he didn't think Sherlock should get all the fun."

Her voice had adopted a slight tremor.

"He thought it fitting that the woman Sherlock…loves ought to kill you, as your beloved nearly killed him."

John's gaze turned icy at the mention of his friend's near demise. "I see."

His eyes quickly turned thoughtful, however, as the moment passed.

"But why? Why are _you_ doing this?"

A fleeting glimpse of pain passed over her face before a mask fell over her features; the smug smirk settling like plaster or wax, not quite fitting her face.

"I can't just kill you for my own purposes? I've done more for lesser reason."

"No. No if you were doing this for you I would be dead. If this scheme of Moriarty's really benefited you, you would have made sure that bullet hit its target. You wouldn't have looked away. And you certainly wouldn't have cried over my powdery corpse over there."

Irene smiled in spite of herself before realizing the situation, and sobering once more.

"After Karachi, I had nothing. I lost all my…insurance. There were others who wanted to kill me. I had no home. No means. I even lost my name to a death certificate in a government file. I would have died on the streets if Jim hadn't found me. I was in Dublin when he found me. Moran collected me and took me to America. That was the first time I ever met him in person, Moriarty. He looked after me, not out of any goodness in his heart you understand, but to use me as a chess piece in his game. Use me to hurt him."

She paused here and looked away.

"I knew but I didn't care. I was desperate. A month ago he came to me and told me what he wanted. He reminded me of all I owed him, and I thought I could do it. I thought I could kill you, but when I got here…I couldn't do it. I couldn't do that to him."

She cursed the tears welling in her eyes again.

"You love him."

She said nothing, but the answer rang clear as a bell.

"Then it appears we're at an impasse. I know how he feels for you and I couldn't bear to see him hurt as he was when he thought you dead. Not again."

"So, what do we do?" Irene's voice was so low, John barely heard it.

"I don't know. If you kill me it will hurt him, if I kill you it will hurt him, if neither of us die here, Moriarty will find you and kill you, and it will hurt him."

The air was heavy with silence. The hands of the wall clock moved with the slow grace of a mosquito in amber and still they sat. Ten long turns of the slender hand passed before either moved.

It was a moment, a mere instant in which he let down his guard. He glanced away and Irene's eyes hardened, her lips curving in ways both sinister and seductive. Irene knew her craft well. _"If you don't have the cards, you bluff; and none could match her in deception. John Watson would die that day. She would see to that."_

For the second time that day a bullet sped towards John Watson, this time unaware and point blank.

Irene stared impassively as blood seeped out onto the linoleum and scoffed. _"Sentiment."_


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: I own nothing blah blah blah.**

Chapter five

Sherlock stumbled out onto the pavement, eyes wild, scarf hanging limply about his neck, untied and edges fraying in the wind at an alarming rate. His eyes darted about before settling on a fast approaching cab and charging into the street; stopping the small, black vehicle by acting as a living road block. He rolled across the hood of the car as he heard brakes squeal in protest at their sudden use. He had bruised a rib or two in his 'hailing' of the cab, but at the moment, he could not bring himself to care.

He clambered into the cab and rattled off the address to the cabbie as they pulled out into London traffic. His knee bobbed anxiously as he silently begged the cabbie to drive faster. Upon reaching the third traffic light, glowing crimson as a devil's eye, the detective snapped out a few unsavory deductions about the man's wife and her affair with the dermatologist who had such _lovely_ skin compared to her husband's toe fungus that he had acquired from his last visit to the gym three months and four days prior. A rather failing effort on his part in Sherlock's opinion. The cabbie said nothing, but Sherlock could swear they were moving approximately 3.57 kilometers slower than before. He groaned.

The congestion of London's streets slowly melted into suburban flats and Sherlock became dimly aware of the police car tailing them. No lights, but current speed speaks urgency. Lestrade then. Sherlock let out a heavy breath and shut his eyes. An eternity of moments later, he felt the cab slow. " _Finally."_ He turned to the cabbie in order to leave one last cutting remark but stopped, seeing the man's face.

His eyes wide, his mouth hanging agape, he stared at something beyond his window, a strange light reflecting in his eyes. Sherlock turned to his right and felt his gaze shift upward at the sight beyond his window. His eyes widened and heard a gasp of horror that he would only later realize was his own. His mind shrieked at him to move, but his limbs were frozen in terror. A strange feeling, fear. He could only ever recall feeling it perhaps once or twice before. His fear wasn't even the conventional sort. His mind just didn't work that way. It was always fear for another. Fear for their sake and being left alone once more.

Sherlock would never forget that terrible night in November nearly two years ago, when a bonfire lit a darkened sky. The cold, dispassionate part of himself that seemed to grow smaller each day, now spoke with all the clarity of a bell in the recesses of his mind. There were terrible similarities here. The helplessness, the fear, even the date was close to that day of treason. And as the light vanished from the sky throwing the world into dusk, Sherlock knew this too was a day he would never forget.

And so they three sat, two in shock, the last in a car behind, hand grasping his graying hair and shouting into his phone for aide. But there was nothing to be done. It was too late. And so they three sat, and watched the world burn.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Sherlock Holmes did not grieve.

He did not grieve as he stepped into the ruined flat, seeing flames where they had been long extinguished.

He did not grieve at the sight of his friend, still recognizable beneath the burns.

A tattered jumper.

A broken kettle.

Crimson blood.

Stormy eyes glazed, vacant…dead.

He felt no horror seeing the great iron brand impaled through John's chest, a calligraphic M seared onto his breast.

His breath did not hitch as he saw the message scratched into the wall, partially covered by ash.

He was unmoved by the words.

 _"_ _You'll miss me now."_

He did not break down before the body. He did not need Lestrade's supporting arm on his shoulder or the blanket around his shoulders or the lift home.

He did not understand why Anderson and Donovan looked so… _pitying_. So empathetic.

Sherlock Holmes did not grieve.

He did not weep as he informed Mary Watson of her husband's death. He did not cry with her as she mourned. He did not cry for the child who would never know her father, the only friend Sherlock never expected to have. The child's eyes did not remind him of John. He didn't look after John's wife and daughter as his own family. He didn't feel. He didn't care.

His voice did not break as he gave the eulogy.

He didn't get terribly drunk with John's sister.

He didn't read John's blog.

He did not still speak to his absent friend, forgetting for a moment that he was not there to pass him his phone.

He did not expect tea to be made for him.

He did not make a second cup of tea every morning.

He didn't keep John's old cane, long abandoned by its owner.

He was not sentimental.

He did not expect John to be there.

Doctor Watson was dead.

Sherlock Holmes did not grieve.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: This is the final chapter. There are four endings to this story. I have written two. Let me know if I should post the other.**

Chapter Seven

 _three years later_

Sherlock trudged up the stairs to his flat, expensive shoes scuffing against worn steps. The case had been dull, a three at the most, but he'd needed a case. Needed to get out of the empty house.

Mary had lived with him for two years now. She said she needed help balancing the baby with her medical career but Sherlock had never believed her. She took care of him more than he ever did her, fussing over him like some mother hen. He'd never said it, but he was grateful. It was hard to believe the same woman had shot him all those years ago. How times had changed.

Mary was attending a week long medical seminar and had asked if he could look after Sherly. He hadn't been surprised that badly since John had asked him to be his best man. How could she be so trusting of him, a man who experimented with severed thumbs? A man who got off on catching murderers and psychopaths. A man who had failed her in so many ways and broken the single vow he ever made. If he'd never come back…

He crossed the rapidly darkening room as evening set in, one pale hand covering his eyes. He thought vaguely that Mrs. Hudson must have taken Sherly out after he'd left the girl in her care. He often did that, but he didn't think either party really minded. Mrs. Hudson adored the little girl just as he was sure Sherly loved her. He could never stay around the child for too long anyway. He knew those eyes would find him, and in those eyes would be no blame or anger, only trust. He didn't think he could bear that. It had nearly broken him when her first word had been "Sh'lck."

Dashing away tears and memories with them he looked out at London.

It was quiet. So very quiet.

Moriarty's attacks had stopped after John's death. He'd expected Sherlock to follow him, and he'd wanted to. God he'd wanted to tear that man apart, but Mary had stopped him. Told him that he'd be playing into the game. That Moriarty would kill him and John would never have wanted that. It had taken some convincing, but he finally agreed to wait him out. Bide his time.

His anger had not diminished. Not in the slightest. He wanted Moriarty to return. Wanted to snap his little Irish neck, granted that he got there first. He'd seen the spots of ink on Mrs. Hudson's hands and the quick stroke of them, suggesting her anger bordering on violence. Of course he'd also read her journal where she carefully detailed all the ways she planned on making Moriarty pay for everything he had done to her boys.

Sherlock smiled a little at the thought. Martha Hudson could be quite scary when she put her mind to it.

Stars were peeking out above the smog now. How cold their light seemed to be.

He turned away from them to look back into the lonely room when he came up short.

There was a red arm chair with an old, faded RAMC pillow hanging haphazardly off the side, sliding slowly off the armrest until it fell to the ground next to a pair of shoes. And in the shoes there were two feet, and the two feet belonged to a man, slumped in a chair fiddling with an old cane.

The man looked up and grinned at Sherlock's startled expression. It had been so long since he'd seen that grin.

"Hello, sweetie."

A madman's grin.

"Jim." Sherlock nearly surprised himself with how cold his voice sounded to his own ears.

Moriarty stood, twirling John's old cane about.

"Now is that any way to address an old friend? I must say I was rather disappointed when you didn't show up in Switzerland."

"Reichenbach. The bombing at the falls."

"Oh, so you did know then?"

"'Course. Obvious."

"Naturally. You didn't come."

"No."

"Why?"

"Better things to do. Seemingly domestic murder, but the woman's left foot was missing. Also had to pick up some milk and beans at the market."

Jim scoffed. "Oh Sherlock, look how dull you've become. You were so much more than this. You've practically domesticated yourself."

He tsked, tapping the cane against the floor, punctuating his words. "And what for? People? Feelings? They're your real enemies Sherlock. They make you so weak. And every time you try to get close to someone it'll just…blow up in your face."

Sherlock's gaze turned steely hearing the threat. His voice remained cool.

"You would know."

"'Course I'd know. I was like you once. So hopeful."

"No, you weren't."

"No, I really wasn't. I do know hope though. I like watching it leave."

He paused for a moment, picking fuzz off of his tie.

"I hear the good Inspector and his wife are expecting. Twins was it?"

Sherlock stiffened. Jim ignored him.

"And aren't children just a remarkable thing. So hopeful. I imagine Johnny's girl is like that too. He was so painfully optimistic, up until I stabbed that brand through his chest. Had to do that myself by the way. Dear old Irene just didn't have the stomach for it. He got blood all over my shoes."

"Why are you telling me this?" Sherlock balled his hand into a fist behind his back.

"Because there's nothing you can do to change it. And there's nothing you can do to stop me from doing the same thing to everyone you love. Love is a weakness Sherlock, and I'll burn it all away."

"There's nothing left to burn."

"We both know that's not quite true."

He dropped the cane.

"You seem to be quite fond of Mary." He rolled his eyes, making dramatic air quotes around her name. "Then there's your housekeeper, the old bat downstairs; then the Inspector and his family; little miss Molly; and the baby will be last. I'll burn them all, and your heart will burn with them till it goes cold, and I'm all you have left in the world."

"No."

Moriarty raised his eyebrows.

"And how do you propose to stop me?"

"I could kill you."

"Didn't work before."

"I'd pull the trigger."

"Of what? This?"

Moriarty pulled John's old Browning out of his pocket. The gun Sherlock always took with him on cases.

"You're unarmed Sherlock. You couldn't stop me even if you weren't."

"And why's that?"

"Because they're already dead."

Sherlock's mind reeled. It was as though all his thoughts were collapsing in on themselves.

"You're lying."

"I'm not. And you know I'm not."

Hot bubbling rage burned through Sherlock's veins. He would kill him. He would…

Both men turned to the windows as they saw the glare of headlights. Mrs. Hudson stepped out of a cab holding a squirming toddler.

Sherlock whirled around to see Moriarty's face, shocked and panicked, just as the madman leveled and cocked the revolver at him.

Sherlock backed half a step away before the gunshot broke the stunned silence. Both men heard Mrs. Hudson cry out downstairs at the sudden noise. They stood for a moment.

And James Moriarty fell to the floor, a bullet between the eyes.

Sherlock scrambled backwards, head jerking towards the now broken window and he began to deduce.

Bullet through window, closest building on opposite side one-hundred meters away.

Long-range pistol.

Dark night. Cloudy. Windy.

Good shot. Steady hand.

Knew the circumstances. Knew Moriarty _and_ him. Not only knew him, but would shoot a man to save him.

Sherlock stopped the pacing he didn't know he'd begun and smiled.

In an empty room with a bleeding corpse he smiled. And into the darkness he spoke.

"Hello, John."

 _Fin?_


End file.
